When Cork heard that particular statement, he asked Jo to arrange a meeting with her clients.
“It’s just Russell talking,” she assured him. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“Someone not especially inclined to like Indians in the first place and who is a fisherman in the second won’t think of it as just Russell Blackwater’s way of talking. I want to speak with your clients.”
Jo arranged for the meeting to take place in the old Catholic mission building on the reservation. Since 1953, when Congress passed Public Law 280 transferring jurisdiction on Minnesota reservations from federal hands to the state, it had been the responsibility of Tamarack County to provide law enforcement for the Iron Lake Reservation. Not an easy job considering the distrust that existed among the Ojibwe regarding the white legal system. Before Cork became sheriff, it was rare that a law enforcement officer would even set foot on the reservation. Cork had never sent a deputy there, knowing full well nothing useful would come of it. Reservation affairs he handled himself. More often than not, even he came away feeling that he’d trespassed.
When Cork drove into the meadow where the small white mission building stood, he found the structure surrounded by the cars and trucks of the reservation Anishinaabe. The building had fallen into disrepair from years of neglect, but St. Kawasaki had been working steadily on revamping the structure. Inside, the Anishinaabe were seated on old rough pews, amid the boards and sawhorses that were the evidence of the priest’s steady labor.
“You’re part Shinnob,” Blackwater began the meeting. “What I’d like to know is who the hell’s side are you on, anyway?”
“I’m not on a side,” Cork explained. “My job is to abide by the law and to see that everyone else in Tamarack County does, too.”
“Whose law?” Wanda Manydeeds asked from the back of the room. “The white man’s law?”
“The law decided by the court,” Cork replied.
“The white man’s court,” Wanda Manydeeds accused. “What about justice? Most of us here know from experience that justice and the white man’s law aren’t the same.”
A lot of heads nodded in agreement.
“Law is in books,” Cork told them. “Justice is a point of view. I can’t enforce a point of view.”
Blackwater turned to the gathering. “I told you we can’t expect any help from this man. Blood of The People may run through his body, but his heart is a white man’s heart.”
“Please listen to me,” Cork said. “If the court says you have the right to fish, I’ll do everything I can to guarantee that right. If the court says you have no right, I’ll be forced to take action against anyone who tries.”
“Action?” Blackwater let a moment of absolute stillness pass, then he said, “What would you do? Shoot us?”
“That will never happen and we both know it, Russell.”
“It’s happened to The People before.”
“It won’t happen here. You have my word on it.”
“The word of a white man,” Blackwater said with disgust.
Sam Winter Moon stood up. “The word of a man we all know to be a good, truthful man.”
“Yeah,” Joe John LeBeau spoke up. “I’ve known Cork O’Connor all my life. I believe what he says. Whatever else goes down, I know he’ll do his best to see we’re treated fair.”
“All right,” Blackwater said skeptically. “What is it you want from us?”
“I don’t want a war,” Cork replied. “I don’t want any more talk about war. I don’t want guns carried around out of fear. The surest way to create an incident is to behave as if it’s going to occur. Go on about your business just as you always have and wait for the court to make its decision. And be hopeful. Remember, you have the best attorney in the state working for you.” He allowed himself a smile, and was glad to see many of those gathered smiling in return.
Thirty-six hours before opening day of spearfishing, the court handed down its decision. The Anishinaabe had the right under treaty to fish the lake to the full extent of the limit set by the DNR. Cork put all his men on alert and told them they should expect to work extra duty once the fishing began.
The evening before opening day, Cork met with those who were going to spearfish. They gathered in Russell Blackwater’s trailer on the reservation. Jo was there. So were half a dozen other Anishinaabe including Joe John LeBeau, Wanda Manydeeds-Joe John’s sister-and Sam Winter Moon.
“I promised I’d do everything I can to protect you tomorrow. In order to do that I’m going to need some help from you.”
“What help?” Blackwater asked suspiciously.
“I’m most concerned about getting you from your vehicles into the boats and onto the lake. My guess is that we’re going to have quite a crowd there to greet you. The faster you get onto the water, the better.”
“We’re not going to run down there like rabbits,” Blackwater said.
“That’s not what I’m asking. But the longer you present yourselves as targets to angry people, the greater the chance something can happen. And, Russell, if you saunter down there in front of these folks with some kind of attitude, you’re just begging for trouble. That’s when someone will get hurt.”
“Is that a threat?” Blackwater asked. He glanced at the others in the small room.
“It’s a potential.” Cork looked around the room himself, pausing briefly to study the Anishinaabe he’d known all his life. “These people don’t see the world the same way you do. A lot of the resort owners believe that what you’re doing will ruin them. These are desperate people. And what I’m trying to make you understand is that there’s real danger in what you’re going to do tomorrow. It won’t be a cakewalk.”
Sam Winter Moon gave a single, slow nod. “There’s danger in acting,” he said. “There’s also danger in sitting still, Cork. The law’s finally on the side of The People. If we sit, what have we gained? Seems to me that if trouble comes, it won’t be our doing.”
“It never was,” Cork replied. “But it’s always The People who suffer in the end, regardless of right. My own wish is that you’d hold off doing anything until your counsel here has had a chance to negotiate a settlement of some kind with the state. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it, Russell?”
“A settlement with the state will be easier to negotiate if the state knows we’re serious in our intent,” Blackwater pointed out.
“And if someone has already been hurt,” Cork added, looking straight into the hungry hunter’s eyes of Russell Blackwater.
“Sounds like another threat to me,” Blackwater said.
“Cork,” Joe John LeBeau spoke up. “Nobody wants anybody to get hurt. We just want what’s ours for a change. Don’t you get it? The world’s looking on. How can we lose?”
“I can’t absolutely guarantee your safety, Joe John. That’s my point.”
“When did you ever?” Wanda Manydeeds said with a little bitterness.
“Some of your customers will be in the crowd that gathers tomorrow, Joe John,” Cork reminded him. “You, too, Sam.”
“This isn’t about business, Cork.” Joe John looked around the room. “I can’t ever remember feeling so much like one of The People. That’s more important to me, to all of us, than anything else.”
“It’s not a question anymore of fishing,” Sam spoke up. “It’s a question of what’s right, Cork. We’ve bent like reeds in a river for generations, bent so far over we’ve just about forgot how to stand up straight. Look at us now. None of us has ever been so proud of being a Shinnob.”
Cork knew that was true. The feeling in the room of Blackwater’s trailer was sweeping all of them along toward some inevitability. Russell Blackwater had brought the possibility of power to the reservation, and everyone gathered was ready to follow him anywhere.
“We’re going to exercise our rights,” Blackwater said. “We expect you to do your job.”